


More Than Words

by CBlue



Series: Geraskier Week (2020) [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Established Relationship, M/M, Magic, Soulmarks, Soulmates, The First Words They Tell You, Unreliable narrator?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-19 08:23:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22707934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CBlue/pseuds/CBlue
Summary: “Do you think,” Ciri asked softly, directing the question toward Jaskier, “do you think there’s a way to help them recover their soulmarks?”Jaskier looked peculiar, eyes flickering from the light of the campfire. The question left him unusually silent and Ciri wondered if that meant he was genuinely thinking. Genuinely recalling. She was a child, but clever, and she could tell that Jaskier knew of a chance.“No,” he lied, looking away from her and rubbing at his own bracelet. The fanciful bard had a slab of silver covering his soulmark, intricate in its designs. They were words in Elder Speech. Ciri could recognize some of the letters, but not the phrase.*****Cirilla knows she’s smart. It just takes her some time to puzzle out what Destiny might have had planned all along.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geraskier Week (2020) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1639330
Comments: 28
Kudos: 757





	More Than Words

**Author's Note:**

> This is Day One of Geraskier Week! check out @gersakierweek on Tumblr, and come shout at me about The Witcher @corancoranthemagicalman on Tumblr too!! This is another Outsider POV that I played with done for the Soulmates prompt. It was fun to mess around with and I hope you enjoy it! (And yes, the title comes from Extreme's _More Than Words_.)

Ciri knew she was a child, but that did not make her any less clever. She knew that Geralt and Yennefer were soulmates; she just didn’t know how to prove it. Both Geralt and Yennefer had lost their soulmarks during the processes which granted them their powers, and neither could have that comforting truth of knowing they were made for each other. Ciri thumbed at the leather strap covering her own mark. It was a human comfort, and neither were quite human, but that did not make them any  _ less  _ human. Ciri knew that made sense despite how illogical it sounded. She was a child, but that did not make her any less clever.

“Do you think,” Ciri asked softly, directing the question toward Jaskier, “do you think there’s a way to help them recover their soulmarks?”

Jaskier looked peculiar, eyes flickering from the light of the campfire. The question left him unusually silent and Ciri wondered if that meant he was genuinely thinking. Genuinely recalling. She was a child, but clever, and she could tell that Jaskier knew of a chance.

“No,” he lied, looking away from her and rubbing at his own bracelet. The fanciful bard had a slab of silver covering his soulmark, intricate in its designs. They were words in Elder Speech. Ciri could recognize some of the letters, but not the phrase.

She thinned her lip into a line as she turned away. Ciri could not understand why the adults lied to her so. She was a child, but she was clever. Her entire life had been slaughtered before her, and she had raced across the Continent to find Geralt.

“Please,” she whispered instead, looking to the bard across the fire in their small campsite. “I want them to be happy.”

Something exquisitely beautiful and heartbreaking fluttered across Jaskier’s face like stories in the smoke of the fire. Ciri was about to take it back, take back whatever she had not known she was asking, but then Jaskier nodded.

“There might be a way,” his voice was strained. He was always the master of his voice, and yet here it broke. A melancholy of a ballad in the twilight. “I know someone. I’ll ask her the next time we are around her neck of the woods.”

Ciri was a child, but she was clever. Clever enough to know she had requested something of Jaskier that she did not fully understand, and yet that he was willing to do. Jaskier cared deeply for Geralt, despite what the Witcher had led her to believe before they had reunited. It made Ciri cautious when they had first met him with Geralt, and yet there was a dedication to him that she had not quite known.

She had known him before, knew him when he had played for her birthdays, but now it felt like an uncle watching over his brother’s charge. A new light was cast on when her grandmother spoke of the bard that gifted her with a night of songs for her birthday. The  _ Lion Cub of Cintra  _ and other such gifts that the bard she had then known as Dandelion had gifted her.

“Jaskier?” She spoke softly, wanting to draw Jaskier from whatever place her request had sent him to.

“Hmm?” Jaskier had hummed, eyes directed at the fire as he fed it distractedly.

Ciri bit her lip, grateful that Yennefer and Geralt were out for the contract for the night. Enough time to talk over such things with Jaskier. While the bard was always talkative, oversharing as his profession deemed fit, but he was wary when speaking of certain things in front of Yennefer and Geralt. Ciri could tell.

“Have you met them yet?” Moving closer to Jaskier, Ciri looked at his silver covering again. “Your soulmate, I mean.”

Jaskier chuckled, but the sound was mirthless. It made Ciri’s heart feel heavy in her chest. “Don’t you worry about me, _ an coram _ .” He cradled her neck, kissing her forehead gently in an affectionate gesture that had always left Ciri feeling warm, feeling something like the home that had been stripped from her. “Go. Sleep. Geralt and Yennefer will be back soon.”

Although Ciri was a child, she was clever. She knew Jaskier was trying to appease her, to keep her distracted from what she had not known but did know was happening. She was clever, but not knowledgeable enough to puzzle the bard out.

Nodding, Ciri moved to her bedroll. Sleep did not come quickly, not until Jaskier began to sing a lullaby. The melody was familiar, but the bard did not sing the words. Ciri was not stupid, even if she wasn’t an adult, but adults were stupid too. If adults weren’t stupid, then Yennefer and Geralt would be happy, and Jaskier would not lie to her.

Ciri was a child but she was clever, and yet, she almost had forgotten all about the conversation with Jaskier on that late night. Not until they were in a small village and Jaskier sat across from her. He had just finished one of his sets, Yennefer upstairs and Geralt out tending to Roach. Jaskier looked solemn in comparison to the jovial performance he had just given the tavern.

“It can only be one of them,” he spoke briskly, as if afraid at any moment Geralt or Yennefer would surprise them and catch the conversation. “Only one of their marks can be returned.”

“What does it cost?” Ciri asked. She was a child, but she was not stupid. These things cost. Magic always had a cost and sometimes the price Chaos demanded was too high.

Jaskier smiled but it did not reach his eyes. Ciri was clever enough to know that. “Nothing that won’t be missed,  _ rhenawedd _ .” He handled his tankard with care, not one taking a sip of the sweet ale. “Only one of them. The choice is yours.”

Ciri’s eyes widened, drawing back and away from her hot plate of food. “W-why me?” For she was clever, but a child. Why should it be her choice to deem which of them were gifted their sacred words? How would she know which one it would benefit, to which one their connection would strength from receiving it?

“Because I would be selfish in my choice,” Jaskier spoke honestly, and yet his eyes lied once more. “You’re clever, Fiona. Clever enough to know which one it should go to.”

The moniker that Geralt had demanded she use out in public still felt intimate with how her small family spoke it. Made it seem less strange. Shaking her head, Ciri looked to Jaskier again. “How quickly must the decision be?”

Jaskier winked, this time taking a swig of his ale. “My friend has to do it. The one in this town.” He set aside his tankard, tearing at the bread on his own plate. “We have until we’re off.”

Inhaling sharply, Ciri eventually nodded. “Right,” she whispered, but she was unsure. She was a child, and she might have been clever but she was scared. Scared of what Jaskier did not tell her. Scared of what he perhaps had been telling her, but she could not understand. Because Ciri was clever, but she did not know this language of Jaskier’s any more than she knew the words on his wrist. Knew the engravings on his bracelet that covered them.

There was another question on her lips, another desire to know on her tongue but it died as soon as Geralt entered the tavern. Already the village had been warmed to a witcher in their midst by Jaskier’s songs, so they needn’t worry. And yet the curious and awe-filled eyes were permanently fixated toward Geralt’s form as he moved to sit with them.

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted as he sat, snatching Jaskier’s tankard and drinking from it. The bard rolled his eyes, easily pushing his plate toward Geralt before the witcher began to shovel the food into his mouth. Jaskier rambled about something inane, Ciri liked listening to him but sometimes observation was prioritized over listening. Geralt had told her that.

Watching Jaskier as he spoke with his hands, Geralt barely responded with a huff of breath as he inhaled his food. Ciri felt less clever. Felt more like a child and more uncertain. Things that had previously gone unnoticed took the forefront in her mind. Jaskier leaned toward Geralt, Geralt unmoving in his encroaching of his space. They shared the plate and the ale, the witcher silently responding in that way he always had to Jaskier.

Jaskier must have caught her watching, for his eyes flickered to her for a moment. He continued speaking as if the instance had not passed at all, but Ciri was clever. A child, but clever enough to have seen Jaskier’s hand subtly cover his wrist for a moment before resuming its dancing accompaniment to his words.

Ciri was a child and uncertain, but she was clever.

“Cirilla,” Jaskier whispered in the night, waking her. “Cirilla, wake up.”

Groggily, Ciri wiped the sleep out of her eyes. “Jaskier?” She rasped. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Jaskier’s eyes were almost silver in the night. This past week of the contract that had kept them in this village had drained the blueness of his eyes. It was unsettling but helped the inkling of understanding grow in Ciri’s mind. For she was a child, but clever. And she could learn aptly.

“Geralt said we were leaving at first light,” he told her as if she had not known. “This is it. The last night that you can give a soulmark.

“You mean you,” Ciri corrected, lifting herself off of the small bed to stand in front of him. “You are paying for this. You won’t tell me what, but you are.”

Jaskier nodded, smiling tightly. “You’re clever,  _ beagbleidd. _ ” He kissed the top of her head. “Have you decided? Yennefer or Geralt?”

Ciri was clever, but she was but a child. Her eyes stung and her heart was lodged into her throat. “I know who I choose.” She spoke, voice quivering in the cold night.

“Tell me then,” Jaskier pleaded with her even as his voice never wavered. “Tell me and I shall go to her. We shall give a soulmark back to one so deserving of it.”

Jaskier was correct in that he would be biased with his choice, but Ciri was clever. Ciri knew that despite their bickering and shouting, Jaskier and Yennefer had a deep bond. Something shared that had kept them looking out for the other. Protective and fierce, just as they were with Ciri herself. With Geralt. Even if they showed it in drastically different ways. So she knew that he meant Yennefer too.

“You,” Ciri nodded. “I choose you.”

Blinking with wide and surprised eyes, Jaskier drew back from her. “Me?”

Ciri inhaled sharply, the action causing her tears to break through. “I won’t let you give up your words for theirs.” She spoke sharply. “I won’t. You deserve them too.”

“Sweet Ciri,” Jaskier shook his head, shoulders falling. “I have already known my love. Have suffered and strengthened from it.” He smiled, more genuinely but still sharp and jagged. “Let one of them have that chance.”

A child that was clever and frightened, Ciri grasped onto Jaskier, hugging him tightly. “Please,” she begged him, “don’t make me choose that.”

Combing fingers through her hair, Jaskier sighed. It was defeated. Jaskier’s sighs and hums were a language that Ciri knew, a language that knowing made Ciri feel clever. “I won’t.” He promised her as he pulled back. “I won’t make you choose.”

“Thank you,” Ciri buried her face into Jaskier’s chest, comforted. She would not take his words just to give them to Geralt and Yennefer. Perhaps Geralt and Yennefer were destined for one another, but it would not be words to bring them together. Certainly not Jaskier’s words.

Jaskier hummed a lullaby, soothing her into a deep sleep until she awoke at dawn. She dreamt of a stream, of a lute strumming, of Yennefer teaching her magic and Geralt sitting beside Jaskier. And although Ciri was clever, she could not understand why in her dream Geralt’s arm was around Jaskier’s waist and not Yennefer’s.

The drowners had been fierce enough to cost Jaskier his lute on this contract. Bemoaning, the bard laid his lute to rest. Wrapping it in one of his blankets, Jaskier stored the broken remains near his bags.

“Suppose you’ll just have to buy a new one,” Yennefer quipped. “About time you started carrying something other than moldy wood.”

Jaskier huffed indignantly, muttering a comment about disgracing the dead. Geralt had merely scoffed at their antics.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Ciri spoke softly. For she was clever and saw how much Jaskier ached.

The bard looked to her in surprise, mouth slightly agape. “Oh, Ciri. How sweet of you, really.” He clicked his tongue. “But what sort of bard would I be if I was unable to buy my own instrument?”

“You have no gold,” Geralt grunted, moving the rabbits he had hunted for dinner as they roasted over the fire. “You said you used the last of it for an appointment in the last village.”

Yennefer’s grin was sharp, like a shark in the water, as she grasped onto the tease. “Oh really? Already impotent, old man?”

Scoffing, Jaskier shook his head. “I’ll have you  _ know _ , Yennefer, that it takes the utmost care to keep this smile glistening white.”

The sorceress rolled her eyes, but a smile teased at her face. One that was reflected and increased on Geralt’s, though the witcher’s emotions had always been miniscule for display.

“The last village?” Ciri echoed, looking to Jaskier with a rising horror in her chest. She felt pale, pale and scared and completely unclever.

Jaskier seemed to have caught on that she knew. That she was too clever for her own good. He grimaced but smiled. “I know.” He told her. “I should have told you when I had gone in the night, but I was back before you awoke.” He lied. He lied and none of the supposedly clever adults caught it. Thought him talking about leaving their room in the night. Yennefer and Geralt had shared a room at Jaskier’s instance, but Ciri knew it was because of her. Because _she_ had insisted that Yennefer and Geralt were soulmates.

The rabbit tasted awful, and Ciri could not eat. She was a child, and scared, and not at all clever. It was Jaskier’s choice. It was his decision, and yet Ciri felt it was her idea. That she had stripped Jaskier of the words on his wrist. The only words remaining were the ones engraved on his bracelet.

Later in the night, when Ciri thought herself the only one awake, she heard whisperings. She strained her ears, focusing her senses as Geralt had taught her.

“ _ You’re selfish _ ,” Geralt whispered.

“ _ I know,”  _ Jaskier’s voice had replied with not much more than a hiss. “ _ You’ll wake them if you’re any louder.” _

Ciri frowned, furrowing her brow as she tried to listen.

Geralt shuffled. Ciri knew it was Geralt from the weight of him, even without the chaffing of his armor. “ _ You lie too much,” _ Geralt reprimanded the bard and Ciri could not help but agree with him. “ _ Why did you do it? _ ”

“ _ You said it yourself,”  _ Jaskier sighed, “ _ I am selfish.” _

“ _ Hmm,” _ Geralt grunted before there was more shuffling. There were other words exchanged that Ciri could not hear, could not discern from Geralt’s quiet burring and Jaskier’s soft whisperings.

“ _ Minne,” _ Geralt hushed Jaskier’s soft song. “ _ Do you want to see it?” _

_ “I fear it,” _ Jaskier spoke, and Ciri understood. It did not matter if it was child or adult, but being clever and scared was human. Clever and scared as she listened, as dreams of Geralt smiling and Jaskier braiding her hair warming her heart as she began to catch on.

More shuffling, a silent sort of awe falling over the private scene and its witness. “ _ I love the way you sit and brood in the corner,” _ Jaskier whispered. “Gwynbleidd _.”  _ His voice pleaded, and there was more shuffling, more of the quiet whispers that Ciri could not hope to hear over the dying fire and the night’s howling.

Whatever confusion that was left melted into warmth. Tucking herself beneath her bedroll, Ciri smiled to herself. For she was not always clever, but she knew the word on Jaskier’s wrist that mattered. The name of his soulmate that had covered his soulmark for as long as she had known him, if not longer. And now Geralt’s wrist had been carved by him, carved with him. Perhaps Ciri was not as clever as she thought, perhaps she had missed the looks, the touching.

But now she knew, and learning was just as clever.

“So,” Yennefer drawled out in a rather bored manner as she sat beside Geralt, eyes watching as Jaskier played amongst the court. “What does your wrist say now?” She hummed.

It had been something they had not discussed. Ciri was clever enough not to ask. Only to silently observe Jaskier’s lingering touches and Geralt’s long glances. It was warm in the way Ciri’s dream had been. Yennefer teaching her magic while Geralt and Jaskier sat together a distance away.

Geralt grunted, turning his wrist so that his new leather strap faced him. Ciri could still recall when she had been with Geralt, watching as the leatherworker made a quick job of the simple bracelet. The witcher had smiled, tracing his fingers over the letters and the small dandelion that had marked his wrist. He did the same now.

“Nothing nearly as romantic as you think,” Jaskier quipped, coming to the table where they sat and stealing a drink from Geralt’s mug. “Just hopeful bard pouring his dreams onto a rather grumpy witcher.” He grinned, winking at Geralt as he scooted closer.

Leaning toward Jaskier and baring his teeth, Geralt snarked, “I’m just lucky it wasn’t your line about  _ bread in your pants _ .”

Jaskier squeaked, cheeks flushing red. “I was - _justifiably_ \- flustered! And intimidated!”

“The intimidation didn’t last long,” Geralt snickered, drinking at his ale again.

“How could it when I discovered your weakness for sweet bread?” He teased lightly, raising an eyebrow even as he stole some of the sweet bread from Geralt’s plate. The witcher huffed but did not rebut it.

Yennefer scrunched up her nose, faking a whisper toward Ciri. “Boys are rather gross, aren’t they?”

Smiling brightly, Ciri nodded as she looked to her family. “They’re permitted to.” Because boys were gross; Ciri was a child but clever. And for once, perhaps, maybe Destiny was right.

**Author's Note:**

> Roughly, these are the translations - or their intended meaning.  
> An coram - small lion  
> Rhenawedd- princess  
> Beagbleidd - little wolf  
> Minne - love  
> Gwynbleidd - white wolf  
> Blathtaedh - flower bard


End file.
